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O’Brien’s description had made a reservation.
    â€œBut I heard her make it,” I protested. “She used my office phone.”
    â€œWe have no record of the reservation,” the desk manager told me. “I’m sorry.”
    It was at that moment that I recalled what Sue had said about her husband and if she suddenly disappeared. I didn’t know what was going on, but it definitely wasn’t good.

CHAPTER EIGHT
    Mr. Monk vs. the Rainy Night
    R ight away I knew I had to tell Monk and beg for his help. It would be embarrassing, yes, and he would be raging mad. Or else he would be hurt and disappointed, which would be worse.
    In the past, I might have tried to solve the case myself. I might have trudged forward and tried to deduce what had happened to my client. But even I can learn from experience. The sooner I gave Monk all the facts and let him do his magic, the less damage there would be. And I suspected there would be damage somewhere. There usually is with a mystery like this.
    I drove directly from the hotel to the Pine Street apartment. The rain was coming down more heavily, not just the annoying drizzle we’re all so accustomed to here. I used the doorbell, not my key. The key might have sent a more desperate signal than I wanted, so I stood out in the rain until he buzzed me into the building.
    As soon as he opened his door, he lurched back. “Why are you so wet?” It was like I was threatening him with a water balloon.
    â€œBecause it’s raining.”
    â€œThen you should have used your key. Stay in the hall and I’ll get you some towels.”
    I stood there, uncomplaining, while he retrieved four fluffy towels and handed them out the door. “If you’re planning to step inside, take off your shoes.”
    â€œI need to talk to you about something,” I said as I started to towel off.
    â€œObviously.”
    â€œI’m telling you in advance, you’re not going to like it.”
    â€œDoes it involve you bringing water and mud into my house?”
    â€œWorse, I’m afraid.”
    â€œWhat could be worse?” He continued to block the doorway. Then his phone rang. “Stay there,” he warned. And he retreated into his inner sanctum to answer it. “Trudy. Hello. What’s the matter?”
    I know I haven’t mentioned Trudy much. Not this Trudy. The original Trudy, the one I know I’ve mentioned, was Monk’s wife, the love of his life who was killed in the late 1990s by a car bomb. This Trudy is Leland Stottlemeyer’s wife. She’s a brunette with longish, wavy hair and an enviably full figure. They met several years ago and got married two months later. For a while, the captain called her T.K., thinking Monk might be uncomfortable with having another Trudy around. But Monk turned out to be fine with it. “Everyone should have a Trudy in their life,” he had said.
    Trudy Stottlemeyer has done her best to stay away from our dangerous world. I think she’s fooled herself into thinking that Leland is a plumber who just keeps odd hours. Sowhen Trudy does make contact, it’s almost always something important.
    Monk listened for a few seconds, then covered the receiver. “Don’t take off your shoes,” he shouted in my direction. That didn’t mean he’d changed his mind and I could wear them inside. It meant we were going out. This time we had the advantage of umbrellas—Monk’s primary umbrella and any one of his three identical backups.
    The Stottlemeyers lived in a neighborhood known as Dogpatch, not far from the bay, in a cozy, newish bungalow meant to look a hundred years older than it was. Trudy was on the porch waiting as we shook out our umbrellas and joined her. “I can’t convince him to go to the hospital,” she said.
    â€œWhat happened exactly?” I asked.
    â€œHe was out walking the dog. Teddy hates the rain, so it’s always a